


like holding the universe

by forochel



Series: support your local library!! [2]
Category: GOT7, JJ Project
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, Communication, Domestic Im Jaebum | JB/Park Jinyoung | Jr., Established Relationship, Fluff, Librarian Park Jinyoung | Jr., M/M, Musician Im Jaebum | JB, Neoliberalism Sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 07:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19313227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forochel/pseuds/forochel
Summary: Working on a relationship gets a lot harder when you're both working adults with demanding jobs: the story.





	like holding the universe

**Author's Note:**

> me: maybe this fic is too schmoopy?  
> jjp: [no](https://twitter.com/onionleader/status/1141737094714314755?s=19) :)  
> me: *pours an entire bottle of kirkland maple syrup on this fic*

   
 

In the Fine Arts library, the carpet’s grain changes subtly but significantly where the low-ceiling’d entrance hall opens up into the high, arching central dome under which the reference and circulation desks sit. Jaebeom knows this because he tripped and almost fell on his face, the very first time he went to the reference desk.

Youngjae, who was with him at the time, laughs like a hyena whenever he retells the story of how Jaebeom first met Jinyoung.

"It's not — that carpet is a tripping hazard!" Jaebeom protests to no avail whilst Jinyoung just smiles, pleased and quiet, warmly amused next to him.

And of course Jackson gasps melodramatically and flings himself across the booth to clap his hands around Jinyoung's ears. "Are you telling us you _didn't_ fall over because of how pretty our Jinyoungie is? You'll hurt his feelings!"

"I'm replacing you with younger Youngjae," Jaebeom tells Youngjae. "He's a good dongsaeng."

Next to him, Jinyoung peels Jackson's hands off his head and pushes him back across the table.

"I'm not your dongsaeng," Youngjae points out. "We're literally, like, the same age."

"Ah! Really?" says Jinyoung. "You don't ask me to call you hyung, though?"

He might be sitting down, but Jaebeom feels his entire soul just pulling up short. 

Across the booth, Jackson turns to Mark and stage whispers: “ _Oh boy_.”

“I didn’t _ask_ you,” Jaebeom starts, not quite sure knowing where he’s going with this.

“No,” Jinyoung agrees. He cocks his head and smirks. “You told me to.”

Jackson emits the tiniest little scream, big eyes widening further. Jaebeom isn’t even sure why. 

“Ah, well,” Jaebeom stammers. “I mean —”

The thing is, he did ask Jinyoung! And Jinyoung turned out to be born much later in the year, and they were in different school years _anyway_ , and Jaebeom — and Jaebeom seriously needs to find better friends, because Youngjae is a useless bastard who starts shit and then just sits in a corner laughing silently to himself. There are no corners in this semi-circular booth, but Youngjae manages to project the impression of being in a corner nevertheless. 

“Oh,” Jinyoung says, taking both Jaebeom’s hand and pity on him. “I don’t mind.” 

At this, Jackson emits another little scream and tips over into Mark, who’s been quietly sat next to him all this while, smiling like he knows a secret the rest of them don’t. Maybe he does. 

“So romantic,” he coos at Jinyoung across Mark’s lap, batting his eyelashes ridiculously. Mark’s face is screwed up in amusement. He makes absolutely no move to push Jackson off himself or halt the proceedings. 

“How on earth is this romantic?” Jinyoung demands, pushing Jackson back into his own space firmly with a palm pressed to his cheek.

Jaebeom feels a pang of foreboding, but it’s too late because Jackson’s flung an accusatory finger in his direction and started declaiming: “Well, when Jaebeom- _hyung_ and I first met, he told me it was _hyung_ , and then I found out three weeks later that we’re basically the same age too.”

It’s only because they’ve been friends for over half their lives that Jaebeom even feels remotely concerned for Youngjae, who’s laughing so hard he can’t speak.

“Are you all right?” Finally, Mark speaks, looking at Youngjae with his forehead creased. 

“Jaebeom-ah,” Youngjae wheezes out, flapping a hand at Mark in some form of reassurance. “You’re _so sad_.” 

“Wow,” says Jaebeom. “Would you look at the time. How time flies when you’re having fun. Maybe we should get the bill.” 

And Jinyoung is really kind of perfect despite his own propensity for teasing Jaebeom to the point of wordlessness, because he fakes a yawn then, lifting one dear, long-fingered hand to cover his mouth. “Actually, that’s a good idea. I have work tomorrow.” 

“Our Jinyoungie works so hard, single-handedly improving early childhood literacy in Seoul,” Jackson coos. Jaebeom still hasn’t managed to work out if he’s being sarcastic yet when he does the thing where his voice goes all syrupy sweet. Jinyoung certainly seems to take it on face value while also being casually dismissive of it. 

“If you listened at all to me in undergrad,” Jinyoung says, signalling a waiter for their bill, “you’d know early child literacy is a team effort.” 

Jackson’s response is a mystery lost to speculation, as a waiter arrives promptly. Everyone starts rustling about for their wallets, and Jaebeom gets a deeply illogical frisson of glee when he tells the waiter to bill for him and Jinyoung together. 

“You keep paying for me, hyung,” Jinyoung says later, when they’re all getting ready to leave, even as he’s straightening Jaebeom’s collar. 

Patting him on the hip, Jaebeom murmurs, “You paid last time, don’t pout.” 

Somewhere in his peripheral vision, Jackson’s watching them, face uncharacteristically serious. Jaebeom suppresses his curiosity, tuning back into the conversation around them.

“I don’t understand how you guys went from zero to domestic like --” Youngjae snaps his fingers. 

“ _Zero_ ,” Mark snorts. It’s probably the fifteenth thing he’s said all evening. Youngjae looks at him curiously. Jaebeom and Jinyoung had briefed him beforehand, on how meeting new people makes Mark even quieter than normal, but Youngjae is also accustomed to quite easily charming people out of their shells. 

Jinyoung turns away from Jaebeom’s recalcitrant collar and says, “ _Hyung_ ,” warningly.

“Youngjae-sshi,” says Mark, smiling wide and gleeful. Youngjae blinks rapidly. “We had to listen to Jinyoungie here talk about Jaebeom for _an entire year_ before they actually got together.”

Next to him, Jinyoung groans and buries his face in Jaebeom’s shoulder. Jaebeom squeezes his hip comfortingly, glad that Jinyoung can’t see him grinning. 

“He got wine drunk the night Jaebeom told him to call him ‘hyung’,” Mark continues inexorably. “So drunk.”

“‘What does it _mean_ ’,” Jackson adds, pitching his voice higher in a completely inaccurate imitation of Jinyoung whining. “‘Sseunie, I’m going to _die_.’”

“ _You’re_ going to die,” Jinyoung mutters into the thin cotton of Jaebeom’s shirt. 

“Can you imagine?” Mark chimes in, totally showing his true colours as he tag-teams with Jackson. “Jinyoungie asking us, the two foreigners, to explain the significance of Jaebeom asking him to use ‘hyung’.”

“I hate all of you,” Jinyoung says, unearthing his face from Jaebeom’s shoulder so he can be heard clearly. “Except you, hyung.” He pats Jaebeom on the bum. “You can stay.” 

“Gross,” announces Youngjae cheerfully. “And on that note, I have to get home too. Nice to meet you two. Have fun at work tomorrow, Jinyoung.” And with mischief infusing his voice: “And — Jaebeom, as one old friend to another — loosen up about the honorifics, yeah? Jinyoungie’s not even a year younger than us.”

“RIGHT!” Jackson shouts.

Jaebeom sighs, and starts moving himself and Jinyoung towards his car. “We’re going now.” 

“Running away, cowards!” Jackson calls after them, laughter brimming in his voice. “I see how it is!” 

It’s impossible not to laugh when Jackson is laughing, really. 

Giggling, Jinyoung squeezes Jaebeom’s hand and leans in to whisper, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Jackson, _Jaebeom-ah_.” 

 

*****

 

The power of Jinyoung's pout is not lessened any by the post-coital haze; if anything, Jaebeom feels more susceptible to it when they're entangled like this, limbs flopping carelessly across the bed. Maybe it's the close-up view he's getting. Maybe it's because his lips are kiss-swollen and still glossy with spit.

"It's a good thing we sit on cushions for storytime," Jinyoung sighs, wincing a bit as he levers himself off Jaebeom and sits back on his thighs. He puts a hand on the curve of his lower back, and Jaebeom can tell it's only partly theatrical.

Leaning up to tug Jinyoung down to lie belly-down, Jaebeom says, "You started it," even as he pushes up to kneel over Jinyoung.

Jinyoung swats blindly at him, line of sight obscured by the pillow he's got his face partially turned into. "You didn't have to go quite that hard."

"Mmm," Jaebeom hums, before pushing the heels of his palms into the small of Jinyoung's back, eliciting a deep groan that stirs a distant, weak pang of arousal. "I'm making it up to you now."

All he gets in response is an incomprehensible mumble trailing off into a low moan as he continues pushing in and up the line of Jinyoung's back, hoping to work out at least a little of the exertion. Jaebeom sinks into the repetitive motions, the warmth of Jinyoung’s skin smooth under his palms, the still, peaceful silence early on a Saturday morning.

"Jaebeom-ah," Jinyoung mumbles, the way sleep chews away at his usually crisp diction making Jaebeom smile involuntarily. "My thighs ache too."

Obediently, Jaebeom slides his hands down: along the curve of Jinyoung’s spine, over his pert ass and down to spread his fingers over the back of his thighs and dig his thumbs into the corded muscle running down the insides of them.

Jinyoung exhales a sharp, shocked gasp, going stiff before melting into bonelessness all at once. Jaebeom takes this as a sign to continue.

Eventually, Jinyoung turns over; his eyes are half-lidded in pleasure, like a great cat basking in the spill of golden light filtering in through the curtains and across the bed. He's achingly gorgeous, and Jaebeom can't help but lean down for a kiss that turns dirty very fast.

"Okay, okay," Jinyoung laughs, pushing at his shoulders when Jaebeom’s fingers quest a touch too daringly. "Stop. I have to shower and go to work."

Jaebeom runs a hand down Jinyoung's flank before flopping onto his back with a gusty sigh, forearm flung dramatically over his eyes.

“Hyung...” There’s a note in Jinyoung’s voice that twangs not quite right, like someone harmonising a semitone off. It pierces right through the lazy cloud of contentment Jaebeom’s been luxuriating in. 

Hastily removing his arm and opening his eyes, Jaebeom rolls over onto his side. “Jinyoungie?”

But it’s too late — Jinyoung’s sitting up and getting off the bed. “Ah,” he tosses over his shoulder, “it’s nothing. We’re still meeting for lunch later, right?” 

And then it hits Jaebeom: They've been doing well so far, navigating Jinyoung’s weekend shifts and the intrinsically irregular hours of a music producer, making sure to make time for each other. But Jinyoung was so uncertain about the sustainability of their relationship when he’d just graduated into the joys of job-seeking limbo whilst Jaebeom was simultaneously succumbing to the pressure of finishing his final project, spending more hours in the studio than out. 

In some ways, Jaebeom is grateful for that first fight, because it'd also been the first time Jinyoung had allowed himself to be vulnerable with Jaebeom. He can be straightforward, yes, but reflexively deals more in dizzying deflection and redirection and verbal traps. Which Jaebeom definitely finds fun to watch happen to other people, but not so much himself. 

“Hey,” Jaebeom rolls after Jinyoung and reaches out to catch Jinyoung’s hand just in time. “That’s not what I meant.”

Jinyoung tries tugging away. “You didn’t mean having lunch later?” 

Blowing out a breath, Jaebeom holds firmly on. “No, I meant ... I still don’t mind. When else can parents take their kids to storytime, right?” 

“Okay,” Jinyoung says, voice unnervingly even. 

Jaebeom shakes their hands a little, sitting up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Yah, Jinyoung-ah. Look at me. Please.” 

Jinyoung is still for a long, heartstopping moment, before he turns around, eyes fixed on some point above Jaebeom’s eyes. 

Tugging him in so that he’s standing between Jaebeom’s spread legs, Jaebeom lifts his chin to try and catch Jinyoung’s gaze. “We’ve talked about this before, haven’t we?” 

Jinyoung chews on his lower lip, free hand curling into a loose fist. 

Swallowing another sigh, Jaebeom squeezes their linked hands. “Maybe shouted is a better term for it. But I really don’t mind you working on Saturdays, just like you don’t mind my hours.”

“Unless you overwork,” Jinyoung says quietly, and then presses his lips firmly together, like he didn’t mean to say it.

“Yeah, okay.” Jaebeom smiles. “Unless I disappear for days. I know.”

“I’m going to get even busier with all the after-school programming that we’re launching.” Jinyoung is being so, so careful, and Jaebeom just wishes he knew what to say exactly. 

“I know,” he says, inflecting upwards at the end in question, “you’ve told me. I have that project scheduled for Chuseok drop too. Adulthood, yeah?” 

Jinyoung exhales a tiny little sigh, smiles a tiny little smile. “Yeah, I know. Sorry, hyung —”

“— there’s nothing to apologise for!” Jaebeom interrupts, feeling himself frown. “We’ve been managing just fine so far, yeah?”

There’s something about the way Jinyoung blinks slowly at him that is reminiscent of a predator. Even with this knot of tenseness that Jaebeom’s accidentally wound them into casting a pall over the previously serene morning, Jaebeom’s background thoughts still idly note the play of light over the long, lean lines of Jinyoung’s body, naked and golden as the sun rises. 

“Yeah,” Jinyoung breathes. His throat clicks. Jaebeom watches it bob as he swallows. Steeling himself, Jaebeom thinks. He rubs his thumb over the back of Jinyoung’s hand. Jinyoung’s eyes flick down to watch it and he says like a confession, “Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to go.” 

“Oh.” The sudden clench low under his ribs almost knocks Jaebeom breathless. He stands to gather Jinyoung in close, press his head into the junction between jaw and neck. “Jinyoungie. I know. It’s okay.” 

They stay like that for a few, long moments, breathing together, with Jaebeom feeling the tension bleed out of Jinyoung’s back under his fingers. 

Eventually, Jinyoung peels himself away, pushing Jaebeom back onto his bed. His eyes are rimmed a little in pink. “I really have to go now, really.”

“I can drive you,” Jaebeom says, feeling a little greedy. 

“It’s fine,” says Jinyoung from inside the bathroom. The roar of water rapidly hitting tile starts up, and Jinyoung’s voice echoes weirdly as he continues. “Go back to sleep, Jaebeom-ah.”

A tall order, but Jaebeom does his best, stretching out and snuggling into the lingering warmth left behind by both their bodies, closing his eyes and drifting to the sounds of Jinyoung showering. 

He’s on the cusp of dozing off when the shower sounds stop, and Jinyoung’s footsteps pad closer. 

“See you later, hyung,” he hears Jinyoung murmur, followed by lips briefly pressed to his brow. “Dream of me.” 

*****

  


This isn’t the first time that Jaebeom’s seen Jinyoung at work, not by a long shot. 

Youngjae — the egregious one, not the cute dongsaeng — had lovingly called him a stalker, the first time Jaebeom saw Jinyoung in his guise as a children’s librarian and promptly panicked, ducked around the corner, and texted Youngjae a typo-ridden message about hallucinating the beautiful reference librarian from school in his local library. 

In the wedding video retrospective of their get-together story of his dreams, Jaebeom’s definitely going to have to give a shout-out to the gift that is inter-library loan services. He wouldn’t have been in the local library at all, if the one copy of a pansori exhibition catalogue hadn’t been available solely through the public library and also very inconveniently located in a branch all the way across Seoul. All of which is to say, the paper he’d been labouring over for his class on cultural syncretism in music was probably also going to get a shout-out for facilitating his first glimpse of Jinyoung in faded blue jeans and a sheep-print apron, looking about three times softer and more approachable than he usually did in the university library. 

Jaebeom hasn’t told Jinyoung about this yet, but he probably will ... soon. If only to get rid of the blackmail potential from Youngjae. 

It’s just after noon when Jaebeom manages to find parking space along one of the back streets near the library and makes his way into the compactly organised building. He drops off a couple of books that he’s just finished reading before strolling down the ramp to the sub-ground level that houses the children’s collections. The ramp walls, glass from an adult’s waist-up, have been decorated with a nautical theme for month. Whoever was put in charge of decorating, Jaebeom concludes, is both very talented and very into glitter. 

Immediately off to the left at the foot of the ramp is a corridor leading to the activity rooms. The room that Jinyoung’s storytime takes place in is a mix of carefully controlled crafts chaos and young parents, desperate for adult conversation, gossiping with each other as Jaebeom tiptoes to peer over the frosted glass of the door.

Jinyoung moves like a sailboat cutting its clean way through water between small clusters of toddlers, whose high-pitched babbling rises into the occasional screech that defies the shitty soundproofing of the activity room. There is a very firm limit of fifteen toddlers per storytime, Jaebeom remembers, but for some reason the brownian motion of these small humans between the craft stations that Jinyoung’s set up makes it seem like there are fifty.. 

He watches, fondness buoying him up, as Jinyoung gently catches a little girl in a green dinosaur hoodie and redirects her back to the felt monster board. There’s something about the way Jinyoung smiles and widens his eyes dramatically in delighted surprise when dinosaur girl and her compatriots show him their frankly impressive recreation of what looks — to Jaebeom — like monster Guernica. Something about the way everyone in the room, parents included, seem to turn towards him like sunflowers to the sun. The way Jaebeom isn’t any different, really, tracking him through the door like this.

“You know,” someone tells him conversationally. “If I didn’t know you were hyungie’s boyfriend, I’d be calling the police and reporting a paedophile.” 

To his dying day, Jaebeom will deny the noise he makes as he rocks abruptly back down onto his heels and simultaneously stabs himself in the kidney with the door handle. Thankfully, the door does not open. 

The slight boy who’d almost killed him looks to be almost asphyxiating from silent laughter in turn. He’s got a volunteer sticker slapped on his chest, with ‘BAMBAM’ written on it in rainbow marker, and a truck of books for reshelving abandoned behind him. 

“Bambam-sshi,” Jaebeom starts, and then stop abruptly. “Wait, how do you know who I am?”

“Oh,” says Bambam airily, “I have my ways.” 

Jaebeom narrows his eyes at him. “Your ways.” 

In return, he gets a knowing grin. “My ways. And this has been lovely and all, but I have places to be, books to reshelve, you know. Do try not to get reported by anyone. Jinyoungie-hyung would probably be upset.”

With that parting shot, Bambam walks off, pushing his trolley before him and around the corner out of sight. Duly admonished, Jaebeom leans against the opposite wall with a book he scavenges from a reshelving truck and starts reading about salad pirates instead. It’s oddly charming, these pirates who care so much about avoiding scurvy. 

Jaebeom waits for the last of the parents — bearing a reluctant and squirming child in their arms — to leave before sidling into the room. Jinyoung’s back is turned as he tears down felt shapes that Jaebeom spent a Tuesday night helping him cut out from the velcro board, humming absently to himself - the same tune he’s been practising all week. Midday light falling through the skylight limns his profile when he turns to drop the shapes into a bag and spots Jaebeom out of the corner of his eye. 

In the infinite second during which Jaebeom’s lungs forget how to function, Jinyoung’s face slackens momentarily before breaking into a beam. He turns fully to face the door. “Hyung! I didn’t think — I thought you’d be waiting upstairs!” 

Jaebeom shakes his head. “Why would I?”

“Why —” Jinyoung breaks off and laughs that breathy, high-pitched little thing that means _he’s_ bewildered. 

It’s stupidly adorable, and Jaebeom finds himself crossing the cushion-littered expanse between the door and Jinyoung in long, loping steps. Distantly, the Jaebeom that always exists in the back of his mind, observing things from about a metre up in the air, is making a wry observation about how much of a drama cliche this is. 

Right in the here and now, though, Jaebeom doesn’t give a shit as he steps right into Jinyoung’s personal space and kisses the surprised ‘o’ of his lips. 

“I’m at _work_ ,” Jinyoung says once Jaebeom lets him up for air, pressing Jaebeom away with the bag of felt monster parts still clutched in his hands. He’s smiling, though, so Jaebeom leans in to steal one last quick peck before stepping away. 

Jaebeom helps him tidy up, putting cushions away and acting as a pack-horse all the way up the stairs and through the ground floor to the librarians' offices. Down one long aisle, Bambam looks up from reshelving a book and spots them. His outrageous wink is visible even at this distance, and Jaebeom feels his face spasm.

Ever observant, Jinyoung asks, “What is it?”

“N-nothing!” Jaebeom jiggles his burdens nervously. 

Unfortunately, this only prompts Jinyoung to slow his steps and glance at Jaebeom. Frowning, he asks, “Is it your back? Is it too —” before _his_ face spasms as well. Of course, Jinyoung looks far better even with a spasming face than Jaebeom could ever dream of. 

“Ah,” says Jinyoung, lifting an elegant hand to point two fingers to his eyes before flicking them out towards Bambam. It is somehow both terrifying and very arousing. 

“Bambam...sshi,” Jaebum starts, unsure of where he intends to go with this. “He ...”

“He’s Bambam,” Jinyoung says with some finality, starting to stride off again. “Amusing in small doses.” 

Jaebeom ponders upon this quietly as they near the librarians’ offices. The easel that he’s clutching keeps banging against his shins. “So ... he and Yugyeom should never meet?”

This many months into his and Jinyoung’s relationship, Jaebeom has definitely spent more time with Yugyeom outside the library than in. Jinyoung treats him like a cross between favoured child and annoying little brother, which made a lot of sense once Jaebeom learnt that Jinyoung had grown up the youngest sibling to two older sisters. 

Heaving a sigh, Jinyoung lets them into the offices. “Too late, now. They met when we put on a community talent show last summer and have been fast friends ever since.” 

“Ah!” Jaebeom puts down the easel with relief, leaning it against a convenient cubicle wall. “That’s what Bambam meant by ‘his ways’.” 

Jinyoung moves the easel to another cubicle wall, gesturing for Jaebeom to pass the tote bag he’d been shouldering over. “Eh?” 

“Bambam-sshi ... I met him earlier when I was waiting for you. He knew that I am ... that we are ... he knew who I am. Said he had ‘his ways’.”

“Oh.” Jinyoung disappears behind a cubicle wall, reappearing very quickly with his satchel. “Yeah, that’s probably Yugyeomie. I told him I’d murder him in his sleep if he started gossipping with my sisters, so I guess Bambam is his outlet.”

Yugyeom has been and continues to be extremely excited whenever Jaebeom picks Jinyoung up for a date or comes over to have a night in at Jinyoung and Yugyeom’s. 

“Should he be, I don’t know, jealous of me?” Jaebeom asked once. He is but an only child, but the literature has informed him that younger siblings that are used to being doted upon — even if the doting happens in Jinyoung’s own special way — tend to be jealous when a romantic partner comes along.

Jinyoung’s face contorted, then. “ _Jealous?_ Ew, no, what?”

And Yugyeom, upon hearing of this at some point later, went so far as to collapse into a foetal position on the floor whilst crying “Ew! Ew! Ew!”

Jaebeom gave up on trying to understand sibling dynamics, right there and then. 

“I suppose it’s sweet,” Jaebeom says contemplatively as Jinyoung locks the office door behind him. “That they care about your happiness.” 

Jinyoung glances swiftly at him and then away, but he can’t quite hide the smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Of course that’s what you’d think about.”

“Your happiness?” Jaebeom asks, sliding his fingers between Jinyoung’s and squeezing. “Of course.”

Jinyoung’s hand clenches hard around his, and then he lifts his chin, tosses his hair, and says, “Let’s go eat lunch, hyung.” His cheeks are a little pink and he sounds a little strangled.

Smiling fondly, Jaebeom says, “Okay, let’s go.”

*****

  


“Hyung, you keep drifting away,” Youngjae the younger whines. 

“Ah,” Jaebeom says, attention snapping back to the studio, embarrassed. “Sorry, I just — sorry. Play that again?”

He manages to gather his focus for long enough for them to figure out what was wrong with the bassline and add in some spangle explosions for texture in the upper register. 

“Wow, Jaebum-hyung,” says Youngjae, once everything is safe in his hard drive. “That was so efficient.”

Jaebum squints at him, unsure if his beloved dongsaeng has unplumbed depths of sarcasm. He’s only met Jinyoung the _once_ , and Jaebum’s made sure to never let Youngjae the elder anywhere near him. 

“...thanks?” he settles on in the end. 

“I mean it!” Youngjae says cheerfully, swinging his sling bag onto his back. “It’s always nice working with you, hyung.” 

“You,” says Jaebeom, “are my favourite Youngjae.” 

Belatedly he realises his error: Youngjae cocks his head, puzzled. “I’m the only Youngjae...?”

“Never mind,” Jaebeom says hastily. “It’s just a figure of speech. Don’t you have a summer class to get to?”

Youngjae screeches and bangs his way through the door with a shouted “OKAY THANKS BYE HYUNG!”, leaving Jaebeom wincing in his wake. 

Alone in his studio, Jaebeom spins his chair idly in circles, sinking back into that series of lingering images from last Saturday: Jinyoung, sunlit, in so many moods, and so beautiful no matter what. There’s a song to be spun from this, he can feel it in his gut, but he has no idea where to start. 

He grabs his notebook to start jotting down ideas, sense impressions. Something dreamy, a bit of that celestial reverb, maybe; quiet and contemplative the way their morning had been. But it needed to be underscored a beat like — and then he’s scrambling for his laptop. There’s a drum line he cut together a while ago, something he could adapt for this. 

‘This’ turns into a personal project that he works on when he gets tired of the music that he’s producing for other people, songs already existent if unpolished. It’s exciting, and deeply satisfying, to have music and lyrics that he’s writing only for an audience of two rather than thousands. Or millions, perhaps. 

“You’re in a good mood,” Jinyoung notes one evening, when Jaebeom’s managed to escape the studio dungeons. They’re sitting on a picnic blanket along a less crowded stretch of the Han, sharing Jinyoung’s clumsily rolled kimbap and a small bottle of peach soju.

Jaebeom hums, popping the last thick slice of burdock root kimbap into his mouth and chewing. The rice is seasoned with a touch too much vinegar, but somehow the sweetness of the sliced omelette balances it out. Store-bought omelette, Jinyoung admitted earlier, looking sheepish. But at least he’d put the kimbap together himself, right? 

Right, Jaebeom agreed indulgently. Never mind that “together” was a little bit hit-and-miss when Jinyoung was the one doing the rolling. 

“The song decided to behave?” Jinyoung asks. His eyes are bright and curious, the copper highlights in his hair glinting in the low, golden light of the sinking sun. Down the sharp drop of the embankment, the Han is sweating moisture into the already sticky air. 

“Yeah,” Jaebeom says, pulling his eyes away from the dampness gathering in the dip of Jinyoung’s clavicles. “Figured out the texture of the middle harmonies. It sounds fuller now. More interesting. The kind of song that rewards close listening.”

“I’ll listen to it closely,” Jinyoung promises, clipping the lunchbox’s lid back into place. “I like listening to your music.” He pauses. “But the guide version only, with your voice.” 

Jaebeom grins at him, toasts him with the last of the soju. It came as a surprise to learn how much of a lightweight Jinyoung is, what with the solid, comforting strength in his body. But they split a bottle of wine one night, and Jinyoung became a pliant puddle on Jaebeom’s sofa to be poured, whining incorrigibly, into bed. 

“The efficiency of my liver,” a very grumpy, very hungover, but still eloquent Jinyoung told him the next morning, “has nothing to do with how much time I put in at the gym.” 

And so now Jaebeom has learnt and makes sure to keep Jinyoung safely in the happy tipsy zone, which makes for a happier morning after for the both of them. 

“I like your voice,” Jinyoung continues. “The songs never sound quite the same, after.”

Jaebeom bursts into laughter. “Does that mean you don’t actually listen to my songs?”

“What? No!” Jinyoung smacks his knee. “I just don’t like how they sound different from your version. With all that, what do you call it, mixing and mastering.”

“Well, thank you for your loyalty, Jinyoungie.” Jaebeom reaches out to tuck Jinyoung into his side; he’s been tipsily llisting over, in any case. 

But truly: working on his song has put him in a good mood for the past few weeks. Just having a creative outlet with _no value proposition_ attached to it has been freeing; sinking into the song also means thinking about Jinyoung. It’s made his directing better, too; he’s been making more liberal use of metaphors in trying to get singers to understand what he wants, to surprisingly good effect. 

“Of course,” Jinyoung tells him, slipping his arms around Jaebeom’s middle. It’s almost uncomfortable like this, so close in the sticky heat. Jinyoung’s smiling at Jaebeom, though: fond and indulgent and so, so warm. It startles Jaebeom, sometimes, that he can make Jinyoung happy. That of all the people in the world, with all the smart and lovely and intimidatingly good-looking people that Jinyoung is friends with, _Jaebeom_ is the one who’s managed to catch his attention. Jaebeom doesn’t ever intend to let it go. 

And apparently Jaebeom’s spent a little too long in his head, because Jinyoung’s cocking his head and asking with an abashed little huff of laughter: “What’re you looking at me like that for, hyung?” 

Jaebeom feels himself go embarrassed all over. “I like looking at you,” he says, groping for the right words. It’s like he doesn’t do this for a living. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jinyoung says, but he’s smiling harder, laugh lines spidering out from his eyes. 

“I’m not the only one,” Jaebeom tells him, deploying Jinyoung’s own tactic of deflection against him. “I’ve seen the way those toddlers look at you.” 

It’s possibly a sign of how far gone Jaebeom is that he finds Jinyoung’s snorting laughter cute. 

“Jealous?” he asks, sitting up to pour out cold barley tea from the condensation-slippery tumbler.

Jaebeom reaches out to steady the tumbler. It’s cute, how he can’t hold his liquor as well as girls half his size. Jaebeom has personally witnessed the formidable capacity of some of these idols and escaped barely unscathed. “No, just saying, I understand the urge.” 

“You’re so cheesy.” Jinyoung puts a half filled cup down a little too firmly so he can pat at his cheeks, like he can smack the faint pink flush away. “Do those idols you work with know this?”

“I mean,” Jaebeom deadpans. “They sing my lyrics, so probably.”

The answer is definitely. Jaebeom has suffered through too many deadpan readings of his lyrics without their musical context. Far too many raised eyebrows and unsubtle attempts to pry into his personal life.

“Well,” Jinyoung grins. “Would it be arrogant of me to assume I inspire some of them?”

Jaebeom laughs to cover up the frisson of excitement that just ran through him, leans into Jinyoung to tap him on the nose. “You’ll have to guess.” 

It isn’t hard to guess, though, at least according to Youngjae, whom he plays a short sample to. It’s the first pre-chorus, and Jaebeom feels unaccountably embarrassed at revealing even just this to anybody else; listening to his own voice croon lyrics so specifically about Jinyoung. 

“Ah, hyung!” Youngjae shouts. He and Jackson should never meet, Jaebeom decides there and then. For the sake of all their eardrums. “Hyung!!!”

Jaebeom eyes the way Youngjae is bouncing in his chair. “Yes, Youngjae-ah?” 

“This is so sweet,” Youngjae laughs, barrelling on. “I can’t believe it. Really, it sounds very honest. Do you want musical critique? I’ll have to listen to it again. But ... hyung, you really love whoever it is about, don’t you?” 

*****

  


Jinyoung ropes Jaebeom into volunteering for the winter solstice community talent show with the delicately applied persuasive tools of flattery and his pout. 

“We need someone to run sound,” he says, “on the day itself. I’m asking you so far in advance! That’s all. Maybe some background music for the transitions —”

“You want me to vamp,” Jaebeom clarifies, “while you herd small children onto stage.” 

“Well ...” Jinyoung put the dishtowel down to clasp his hands together. “Yes?” 

Sighing, Jaebeom hands Jinyoung the rice cooker bowl to dry and squeezes over behind him to start putting the dishes away. His tiny kitchen with limited counter space means that dinner for two often overwhelms his equally tiny dish rack. “Okay.”

Turning with the rice cooker bowl tucked in the crook of one arm, Jinyoung stretches up the miniscule amount needed to kiss the corner of Jaebeom’s mouth in thanks. Blindly, Jaebeom takes the bowl from him and turns it vaguely upside down over the drying rack. There’s an ominous sounding clatter muffled a little by the kitchen towel Jaebeom next flings over it all, as he shifts a little so that their lips slide properly together and he can bracket Jinyoung in against the sink. 

“Not that I mind delaying chores,” Jinyoung murmurs a while later when Jaebeom is dragging his mouth down the tendon of Jinyoung’s neck, “but —”

“Shhhh, ’s fine,” Jaebeom mumbles into the hollow under his Adam’s apple, flexing his grip on Jinyoung’s hips. 

The dishes go forgotten until the next morning, when Jaebeom is stumbling around his kitchen trying to make a proper breakfast before his 8.30am meeting with the higher-ups to talk about progress on the album.

He’s grumping incoherently under his breath as he struggles to extract chopsticks to whip eggs with when Jinyoung wanders in half-dressed for work, hair all in cowlicks and squinting myopically in his vague direction.

“I told you.” Jinyoung holds the forest of cutlery in place while Jaebeom pulls a pair of chopsticks out triumphantly. In response to Jaebeom’s questioning noise, he explains: “About chores.” 

Jaebeom makes a grumbling sound, incapable of words before coffee, and starts beating the eggs.

Wordlessly, Jinyoung puts the coffee on and starts pulling leftover banchan out of the fridge. 

“Go change,” he says, as Jaebeom pours the first half of the eggs into the pan. “I can handle rolling eggs.” 

“Mmf,” Jaebeom grunts, and kisses Jinyoung on a stubbly cheek as he shuffles towards his bedroom. 

Later, as he bides his time watching the A&R team assigned to this album argue amongst themselves and with the band’s leader about the creative direction of the project, he presses the fuzzy, sleepy comfort of their early morning into paper, doodling lyrics in the margins of the meeting agenda print-out. 

And even later on, the easy warmth of breakfast seems like a distant memory as Jaebeom is texts Jinyoung with a series of sad emoji about not being able to go home before midnight.

“Sorry, PD-nim,” the boys he’s working with chorus sheepishly as he puts his phone away. 

Bang Chan, who had been a very small boy at the company when Jaebeom had been hired and debuted at some point during Jaebeom’s master’s, asks, “You’re not getting into trouble with the other half, are you?”

Jaebum glares at the cheeky dimples that have popped and chorus of gleeful ‘oooooh’s that followed Bang Chan’s question. Not deigning to answer the question, he replays the most recent take that one of their vocalists did, raising a questioning eyebrow. There’s a few things he’d like to suggest, but Bang Chan and his boys are invigoratingly involved in the production of their music and Jaebeom believes in actual, real mentorship. 

Which had been one of the points of conflict at the fucking early morning meeting. 

If Jaebeom had 100 won for every time he felt incredibly glad to not be an idol, he’d probably be able to buy a year’s worth of deluxe pork sets at his and Jinyoung’s favourite barbeque place. 

“I like it,” Jisung says. “Seungminnie always sounds good.” 

Bang Chan frowns, glancing at Jaebeom. “He does, but there’s something about the rhythm that could be looser. And ... hyung, I’m sorry, but I feel like I need to add something to the instrumentation too.” 

“We can work on that later. For Seungmin ... the phrasing,” Jaebeom says at last, pressing the intercom button. “Seungmin-ah, can you try bending the phrase a bit more? Make it swing more.” 

When he gets home closer to 4am, having chivvied the remaining boys out of the recording studio into his car and dropped them off at their nearby dorm, Jaebeom leaves a trail of clothes behind on his way to the shower. Lying in bed, he checks his phone and would feel warm if he weren’t already shower-flushed when he sees Jinyoung’s last few messages: 

_[22:18:31] ))): fighting, hyung!_

_[23:01:18] do you want me to send you snacks?_

_[23:09:39] okay, you’re probably too busy to read this, I’m going to sleep now! don’t stay up too late, jaebeommie :)_

Work continues apace, and Jaebeom is given responsibility for a soloist’s impending EP. A rush job, for godsforsaken management deadlock reasons. He supposes he should be happy the company has seen fit to trust him this much, but he’d also like some normal person hours off to see his boyfriend in person for more than a sleep-deprived hour. 

Fate being what it is, Jinyoung calls him just as he’s unlocking his studio door one morning. They haven’t seen each other in days, schedules just not lining up. Jaebeom’s heart swoops, unpleasantly and against all rational sense. Fumbling his phone out of his pocket whilst shouldering the door open, heeh slides his thumb across the screen and lets the door slam behind him.

Pressing the phone to his ear, he says, “Jinyoungie?”

“Hyung,” Jinyoung says, already in high dudgeon. “Remember when I was cursing about budget cuts?”

“Uh.” Jaebeom blinks, reassessing. He slowly slings his backpack down onto the floor, racing heart calming a little. “Um, yeah?”

“And remember when I told you Haeri-noona was going on maternity leave?”

The tiniest little bell rings faintly. Haeri-sshi, the one Jaebeom met briefly whilst picking Jinyoung up for a dinner date. Extremely pregnant with a terrifyingly knowing glint in her eye. 

“Oh,” says Jaebeom. “Did she give birth at work?”

“What?” Jinyoung’s huff of exasperation makes Jaebeom smile a little. He drops into his chair with a little grunt. “No, oh my god, hyung. It’s like ten, she’d be in the hospital before work started with the contractions and —”

“Oh,” says Jaebeom again. Jinyoung has briefly mentioned niblings. 

“She did give birth,” Jinyoung says. “Yesterday night. But now they’re _not_ hiring a maternity cover and they _just_ told me I am covering her duties and because the baby is _early_ , Haeri-noona never finished her handover notes, and —”

“Jinyoungie,” Jaebeom interrupts gently, “breathe. You’ll be okay. You wanted to change the collections, right? Now’s your chance.” 

He listens to Jinyoung sucking in a deep breath and blow it noisily out. 

“Okay,” Jinyoung says thinly. “Bright side. Silver lining. Yeah.”

“Do you want me to bring you lunch? Jaebeom asks next. 

“No,” Jinyoung snaps, the panic gone from his voice and replaced by headstrong determination. “I don’t have the _time_.” 

Jaebeom is about to protest, before the memory unpeels itself: that first date, Jinyoung admitting to being distracted by his presence. 

Smiling, he says, “Okay, don’t forget to eat, though.”

“Ugh,” Jinyoung grumps in return. “You sound so smug. I won’t. You too, hyung. Thank you.” 

The next month passes in much the same fashion — Jinyoung takes to sleeping over at Jaebeom’s half the week, just so they can eke some time out together. Even if it means they’re squashed together on Jaebeom’s sofa, legs entangled, both working away at their laptops. 

The one thing nobody ever told Jaebeom about when he started out in music production was the amount of non-music work he’d have to do. 

“Adulthood,” he laments as he tries to figure out how to make a timeline without using Excel. Powerpoint? Word Art? Maybe he should just go the old school route and use Paint. “You can order drinks and eat cake any time you want, but then you also need to use Excel.” 

“Jaebeom-ah,” Jinyoung says absently. He hasn’t looked up, still focussed on whatever sorcery _he’s_ performing in Excel. Budgeting for esoteric library things. A new sheet has just appeared from what Jaebeom can see, and it’s magically making a table as Jinyoung drags things into boxes on his laptop screen. “I am very fond of you, but we are going to have to have a Reckoning if you start shit-talking my one true love, Microsoft Excel.” 

And so the old issues don’t seem to resurface, but Jinyoung’s brief crack on that one still morning niggles away at Jaebeom. He’s watching carefully no matter what happens, doing his best to be attentive without being smothering. Jinyoung stress-learns to make samgak joomeokbap, which Jaebeom brings to work every other day. Jaebeom’s banking app yells at him about overshooting his petrol budget, because he makes use of self-enforced breaks to drive the two districts up to Jinyoung’s library and back. Jinyoung surprises Jaebeom in the studio on a Friday night, so late it’s practically morning, bringing with him convenience store ramyeon and home-made sikhye from the halmeoni who runs a late night shop on the corner of Jinyoung’s street. 

“How much longer,” he mumbles, half-asleep, into the makeshift pillow he’s made of Jaebeom’s wadded up hoodie, “will this go on?”

Jaebeom stares at him. Does he mean ... tonight’s work or this period in general? 

“Hyung?” Jinyoung blinks his eyes open sleepily. His glasses are folded up and set on the sofa arm. 

“I’ll be done soon,” Jaebeom says, throat sticking. “This album will be done soon.”

*****

  


By late August, the album he’s been working on with Bang Chan and the boys has been mastered and sent off to presses both digital and physical. Jaebeom feels a little bit like this is the first time he’s been able to breathe properly in a while.

Jinyoung, on the other hand, is still drowning in work, and increasingly miserable about it.

“I love my job,” he finds Jinyoung muttering to himself one evening as he lies spread-eagled on Jaebeom’s living room floor. “I love my job.” 

The low table has been shoved to one side, and the fan is slightly futilely blowing over a basin of melted ice. Jaebeom switches on the air-conditioning and steps over Jinyoung’s legs to get to the windows. 

“I bought watermelon,” he says, sinking down and crossing his legs next to Jinyoung’s head. “It’s cold.” 

“I don’t feel like eating,” Jinyoung says petulantly, and rolls into Jaebeom’s lap. He presses his face into Jaebeom’s belly. 

Jaebeom pets at his hair, feeling worried. “Jinyoungie ... how can I help?”

Whatever Jinyoung replies with is completely inaudible. 

“Come on.” Jaebeom strokes the curve of Jinyoung’s ear. “Eat _some_ thing. It’ll help you think.”

Jinyoung turns his face up, wriggling so that he’s lying on his back. “I can’t. My brain’s fried. I’m doing two people’s work and I can’t complain because I’m so new.”

“What about ... do you have a student librarian? Like you were? Or, oh, one of those free-labour-for-credit things?”

“Jaebeom,” Jinyoung says, reaching out to grasp the hand that Jaebeom’s been gesturing aimlessly with. “I just want you to listen to me complain.” 

So Jaebeom listens, though he also has a short chat with Yugyeom the next time he drops a slightly less wilting Jinyoung off at home and learns that (a) a student libarian _has_ been recently hired, presumably because Jinyoung’s boss finally saw fit to notice that her newest permanent hire was on the brink of a psychotic break; and, (b) Yugyeom blackmailed a dancer-hyung in the library programme into doing one of those free-labour-for-credit things. 

“I’m not saying I support the exploitation of student labour,” Jaebeom says hypocritically, “but it’s like you and Jinyoungie are really related.”

“Bite your tongue,” Jinyoung says acidly as he steps out of the bathroom, damp and flushed. 

With more time on his hands, Jaebeom plots and steals Jinyoung away the weekend after Chuseok for a quick island retreat. Family festivals always require holidays to recover from.

“Hyung,” Jinyoung complains sleepily as Jaebeom half-carries him to the car. “I was _comfortable_.”

“You’ll see,” Jaebeom tells him. “Go back to sleep.” 

And Jinyoung does, waking up only when they’re clanging over the metal gangway onto the ferry.

“Wha-?” Jinyoung mumbles. “Thissa slasher film?”

Jaebeom laughs. “We’re going to Muuido, baby.” 

Entire face scrunched up against the golden spill of late summer sun through the windshield, Jinyoung says, “Doesn’t mean you aren’t going to murder me.” But he obligingly shuffles out of the car once they’re parked, and allows Jaebeom to chivvy him up from the car deck for the ten minute ferry ride.

The beach that Jaebeom booked a hut on is less than a half hour drive away, once their ferry docks on Muuido. Soon enough, they’re standing barefoot — fine, warm sand squishing between their toes — a few metres away from their front door. 

In the long warm tail of summer, the wind that whips balmy and sure through their hair sends tall, fluffy white clouds scudding along in the deep blue sky high over them. 

“You took me to the beach?” Jinyoung asks, pleased and wind-tousled. 

Adjusting Jinyoung’s glasses so that they sit more evenly across the bridge of his nose, Jaebeom teases, “Looks like it.”

“Well,” Jinyoung says. He inhales deeply, shrugs off his shirt, and takes off running for the surf. 

Jaebeom shouts, “Yah!”, tosses Jinyoung’s shirt onto their stoop, and runs after him. 

The charm of splashing around and trying to drown each other wears off fairly quickly, and Jinyoung draws him in close by the elbow as he floats on his back, buffetted gently by the waves rolling in from the Yellow Sea. 

“You float too, Jaebeommie,” Jinyoung says lazily, satoori inflections slipping out to meet the sea. “Come on. Like otters.”

“I don’t want to become lost at sea.” Jaebeom kicks up off the soft sand onto his back anyway, paddling a little with his feet to stay up. 

Jinyoung laughs, a burbling happy thing. “If I were to be marooned on a deserted island, you’d be on my shortlist.”

“Shortlist only?” Jaebeom tries sitting up and ends up sinking butt first. He emerges spluttering, salt water in his nose, to the sight of Jinyoung’s whole face creased up with laughter. It’s probably worth the stinging.

“Well, you know, my noona is pretty handy.” Jinyoung says airily. “What with having two toddlers and all.” 

“Mothers don’t count,” Jaebeom counters, and starts wading back to the shore. “They have scary powers. Come on, let’s go nap in the shade.” 

After a nap to recover from such exertions after such an early start, they have enormous servings of naengmyeon in one of the restaurants dotting the beachfront and have to go on a lazy hike to work it off. There’s some sort of circuit leading off from the beach that a quick internet search told them was famous, which is good enough for them. 

The circuit turns out to be much longer than expected, traversing about half the coastline before cutting through the hills clustered in its centre. By the time they figure this out, it’s too late to turn back.

“It’s such a nice day, anyway,” Jinyoung says, holding onto his sun hat with one hand and gazing out over the sea towards a small, dark green island in the near distance. 

Jaebeom snaps a quick picture of him, unconsciously poised with a foot up on a rock whilst the wind blows at his shirt. The shutter click has Jinyoung turning, brows furrowing and lips already quirking. 

“Here, give me that.” Jinyoung gestures imperiously at Jaebeom’s camera. “Go stand — there, yeah, okay. You need nice photos too.” 

Jinyoung takes possession of the camera for the rest of the way, getting a very hands-on course in outdoor film photography all the way back to the beach. 

They have another restorative nap, venture out for some barbeque, before staking out a spot above the tideline to spend the rest of the evening. 

Night takes its sweet time falling; the hazy border where the sky meets the sea still shot through with pinks and a deep, golden orange, even when the sun has disappeared beneath the curve of the horizon. The moon, like a great ivory coin, has also already come sailing into the indigo sky. 

“Nautical twilight,” Jaebeom says, adjusting the f-stop on his camera, sending Jinyoung a glance over the viewfinder. He’s sprawled out on their beach mat, looking like a dream in the low light: hair salt-stiff and wind-tousled, shirt back on after a little paddle but unbuttoned. “It’s a beautiful time for beautiful pictures.” And then focussing in on Jinyoung’s patient listening face, he presses the shutter button. “Of beautiful people.”

Jinyoung’s face morphs into a grimace bare moments after, and Jaebeom snaps another photograph, laughing.

“ _Hyung_ ,” whines Jinyoung. “You’re so greasy.” 

“What can I say,” Jaebeom shrugs, putting his camera safely away before crawling over Jinyoung’s artless sprawl. He slides a hopeful hand up a bare, sand-smoothened thigh, where the leg Jinyoung’s swimming trunks has been carelessly rucked up. “You inspire me.” 

“We are not going to re-enact Anais Nin. I refuse.” Jinyoung says, closing a hand around Jaebeom’s and removing it firmly. “Sand hurts and is not in the last bit sexy. And you’re going to be complaining for the next hundred years about it getting everywhere.” 

This does give Jaebeom pause. “Okay.” He gets up and extends a hand. “Let’s go back, then.” 

Jinyoung blinks up at him, clearly not having expected this easy capitulation. 

“Chafing is bad,” says Jaebeom. “For both of us.” 

“I’m glad you see it my way,” Jinyoung says, smiling.

They run back up to the hut that Jaebeom’s rented and tumble, all laughter and hands, through the door.

*****

  


Early — so early it’s barely morning — they’re woken up by thunder clapping and the abrupt roar of rain battering at the windows. The pre-dawn light is diffuse and weak through the Roman blinds, and softens the grumpy scrunch of Jinyoung’s face. 

Jaebeom rolls closer and whispers like a secret: “I wrote a song for you.”

“Ah,” says Jinyoung, sleep-hoarse but cheeky anyway. “So I _am_ your muse.” 

Jaebeom snorts softly, nudging at Jinyoung. “Just listen, okay?” 

He pulls the blanket over their heads and hits play before Jinyoung can reply, the first reverberating note dropping like a pebble into a pool. 

The weak pre-dawn sunlight watered down by the ongoing storm cannot filter through the blanket. It’s dark in this warm space, lit only by the ambient glow of Jaebeom’s phone. The light casts interesting shadows on Jinyoung’s face, but Jaebeom can see his face go slack in concentration, see his lips part, see him mouth the last lines of the first verse to himself. 

And then his eyes flutter open as Jaebeom scooches himself even closer to start singing, a little scratchy and off-the-mark but achingly sincere as the first English line hits. 

Jinyoung shifts, t-shirt rustling in counterpoint to Jaebeom crooning sweet and low across the scant few inches between them, doubling over the recorded vocal track. His lashes are long and thick against his cheeks, his eyes having fallen shut again. Jaebeom runs his knuckles along one slightly flushed cheek, smooths a thumb under the curve of an eye. 

Just as his voice cracks on _nareul_ in the second-last pre-chorus, Jinyoung leans up and in.

Everything is so, so soft. Jaebeom feels simultaneously weighless and like he’s sinking into the mattress, like they’re suspended, curled together like overlapping commas in this little cocoon out of time. The sense of unreality is grounded by the warmth of their bodies under the thin blanket: Jinyoung’s leg tucked between his, Jinyoung’s hand stroking up and down his ribs, Jinyoung’s mouth so wet and welcoming.

“You can’t really see me as an angel,” Jinyoung whispers, having drawn away to hide in the crook of Jaebeom’s neck. The last strains of the track have long since died away. 

Jaebeom buries a laugh in his hair, which smells of of camellias and still carries the faint tang of sea-salt. He recalls, abruptly, how stroppy Jinyoung got when Jaebeom forgot his phone on the ferry deck and had to run back up to retrieve it in the nick of time. 

“Even angels can have tantrums,” he says. 

“I do not have _tantrums_ ,” Jinyoung says indignantly. 

“Mmm,” hums Jaebeom. “So, do you like it?” 

Jinyoung blinks slowly enough at him that Jaebeom knows it’s sarcastic. “Did I like it? Shall I demonstrate again?” 

Jaebeom doesn’t stop the silly smile he knows is taking over his face. “I mean, I wouldn’t object.”

“Thank you,” Jinyoung says, some time later. “For the song. And arranging all of this.”

The rain is still beating steadily against the windows and thin, wooden walls of their rented sea hut. Beneath the steady rat-a-tat of rain is a low, distant roar: the churning sea, waves slapping against the beach. It’s a good thing Jaebeom packed breakfast for today too. 

“I wanted to,” Jaebeom says. 

Jinyoung snorts and kicks at Jaebeom’s calf, an easy target from where he’s splayed out over Jaebeom. The weight of him is comforting for now. “Learn to take some credit, Beom-ah.” 

“No, I mean,” says Jaebeom, trying to figure out how to channel the instinctive swelling of determination he’d felt whilst making the song and planning this getaway into words. “I mean it felt like something to be done. Like ... I wanted it, for me too.” 

Pressed so close together, he can feel Jinyoung’s thoughtful hum buzzing against his own sternum.

“I mean,” Jaebeom tries elaborating, and falters when Jinyoung presses back against the hand that Jaebeom’s had secured in the small of his back. He’s propped himself up on his elbows to look down into Jaebeom’s face. Somewhere beyond the veil of rain, the sun has risen to dimly light Jinyoung’s waiting expression. “I mean,” Jaebeom tries again, “I missed you too. Earlier. The last couple of months.” 

“Oh.” Jinyoung’s face does something complicated. “Oh, hyung.” 

“I’m not complaining,” Jaebeom hurries to say, “I mean, you’ve had it so much worse —”

“— it’s not a _competition_ —”

“— and you’re so good to me,” Jaebeom continues, ignoring Jinyoung’s exasperated interjection, “and I just wanted to do something good for you too. And also have you. To myself. I guess.”

Jinyoung’s watching him talk himself out with a weird expression on his face, one that Jaebeom hasn’t learnt to interpret yet. 

“I don’t know what I would do,” Jinyoung says slowly and clearly, “without you. Hyung. You dummy.” 

Logically, Jaebeom knows that Jinyoung is a perfectly capable adult who’d probably get on with his life, which is a good thing. This does not stop the sensation of light from unfurling under his ribs. 

“Jinyoungie,” he says helplessly. 

“It’s all right.” Jinyoung laughs, low and quiet. “I understand. You put it all in my song, anyway.” 

“Yeah.” Jaebeom reaches up to pull Jinyoung back down in relief. “I did. Let’s stay like this longer, okay?”

Jinyoung flops back down against him willingly.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “We don’t have anywhere to go for a while.” 

   
   
 

**Author's Note:**

> I would not have finished writing this without bysine, whose endless cheerleading and motivation with bits of their vastly superior [mcu!spidey falls sideways into A Softer World fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19093003) was integral. I've been a fan of your writing since we were like ten, bb, and am still surprised & glad that we're still writing at each other almost two decades on. 
> 
> and if you made it through all that tooth-rotting fluff, dear reader, thank you! it should be fairly obvious [what](https://66.media.tumblr.com/639ba92c9d04ff8410327c80612228cd/tumblr_pk9lcefaXJ1u263vo_1280.jpg) inspired this. you can pry the headcanon that jb wrote sunrise about jy from my cold dead fingers. 
> 
> anyway if you enjoyed this hit that kudos button! support your local library! neoliberalism is terrible!


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